


A Call For The Missing

by Aestera



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2018-12-22 23:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11977281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aestera/pseuds/Aestera
Summary: After the breaking of the fellowship, Aragorn and Frodo set out on their separate journeys, both unaware that they have been poisoned by the ring.





	1. The Weight of Us

 

> _The light that you need_  
>  _It’s here fading with me_
> 
> \- Aquilo

**Frodo**

  
It is the first break of dawn. Smudges of orange beneath the clouds are starting to seep into the muted gray. Or it could be sunset. I can’t tell anymore. The days all blur into one. Sleep evades me, food tastes like chalk in my mouth.

When I close my eyes, the darkness is unfamiliar. A pigment that I have never encountered before. A shade darker than the deepest black. It devours me whole, and for an unidentifiable amount of time, I lose my grasp on reality. The solace of light and sound desert me. I am scrambling, clawing at the mere memory of the sound of a pulse. I can hear his voice, ripping into my very core. Prying it out of my hands, wisps of flames lapping at my skin. He pleads with me sometimes, when promises of power and fortune fail to entice me. The desperation and loneliness in his voice unravels something within me, opening just the tiniest crevice, enough for him to slip through my defenses. A chink in the armor, as they say, even though I am far from a warrior. Then I am bare, and there’s nothing left between him and me. He knows my weaknesses and he toys with them, mocks me with it and spits me out the other end when he’s done. I am only free of him when he wants me to be.

Every day, it eats away at me. Chipping away at what little resistance I have left. And relentless, he will remain, till the day I am left with none. I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. The power recedes on occasion, and the days are more bearable. But when night falls, it surges back, its strength amplified tenfold, forcing me to the edge of resilience. In those moments, I am ready to give in.

I can only hope that we make it to Mordor before then. When I am at my wits end, I can’t help but think of him. His steely resolve and kind eyes, rough palms against my soft ones. I mustn’t fail him. I mustn’t fail us. The look in eyes frightened me each time we were alone, unblinking orbs gleaming with an insatiable hunger at the band of gold around my throat. His words were tender, soothing me to sleep, but his gaze never shifted from its shine. My feelings were true, but his were a mirage, born once again from the corruption of man. Still, I cannot help but harbor the tiniest bit of hope that he may look upon me once more, when we are both whole again, with a newfound peace and content. I wish now, more than anything, that we would have a chance to speak again. It is unbearable to think that our last words to each other were so careless. Vicious, even though we never meant a single word of it. At least, I didn’t. But that sort of wishful thinking will not do me any good, seeing as it is nothing more than a figment of fantasy at this point. He is not among the living any longer. His absence is an echo, a desperate shiver in the night, the only thing able to traverse the wide miles that separate us. Visions of his corpse, pallid and bloody, come to me when I least expect it. In my dreams and in the water. Amongst its many evils, the Ring does not lie.

It pulses against my chest, sending a ripple across the sores on my neck. I slip it out of my shirt, running my fingers across its smooth surface. I just need to see it. To know that its tangible and still within my possession. Feel its warmth and weight in the center of my palm. I shut my eyes and listen to the voices radiating from its core, blocking out everything else. I’m wading through the noise, trying to find my way in.

_Just once more,_ I whisper to it, in a voice that is not my own.

The rings yields, and the cold drabness of the stone cave morphs around me, into the gilded hallways of Rivendell.

_The feather pillow and bedspread are soft underneath me, and my shoulder is swathed with fresh bandages, throbbing with a dull ache. My lids are heavy with the last dregs of slumber and my limbs are mostly numb. When I come to, he is seated across my bed, in a high backed wooden chair, smoking a pipe, eyes unreadable. I attempt to prop myself up on my elbows, my arms shaking with the effort of it. At that, he closes the space between us in two strides, gently clasping my shoulders and pulling me up to a sitting position. His hand lingers for a beat too long, callused fingers running along my exposed collarbone and across my jaw. I should say something, but I don’t. Words are foul and clumsy things, forcing a name upon every flicker of emotion when there isn’t one that could encompass the spectrum of intricacies stained with the flecks of joy and pain that’s churning within me now. He leans down, pressing his forehead against mine. We’re both breathing hard, our ragged breaths intermingling. I could tilt my head up, just a bit, and--_

The illusion fades, and I realize that I’m circling it around the tip of my finger. Then my senses return, the surroundings shifting back into focus and I slide it back into my shirt.

I watch as Sam rolls over, curled up in his cloak and murmuring in his sleep. My lids feel heavy just watching him, but I know better than to close them again. I can’t risk another connection, now that we’re so close. Just a day’s walk away from Minas Morgul. A bird crows and he jolts awake, eyes darting around for his sword before falling on me.

“Didn’t you get any sleep, Mr. Frodo?” He asks, and I shake my head. An expression akin to worry flickers across his face but he doesn’t say anything more. We’re camping out on the edge of a tunnel, tucked away in the far reaches of the forest. Not the most inconspicuous of areas. We ought to be leaving soon.

“It’s still dark out.” He remarks, peering out the cave, to where Sméagol is sitting.

“We should start moving. It isn’t safe to linger in these parts.”

The cave we have laid in for the night is just a short walk away from the cross roads, where we intend to take the less conspicuous route through the Morgul Vale. Sam has advised me against it countless times, but we do not have the luxury of choice.

He breaks off a piece of Lembas bread and hands it to me. I wave it away.

“You’ve got to keep your strength up, Mr. Frodo. It’s bad enough that you haven’t been getting any sleep.”

“I’m fine, Sam. Just leave it alone, for once.” The words come out harsher than I intended, almost like a hiss and he looks at me, stricken. The anger dissolves almost as swiftly as it had surged, and I bite down hard on my lip, drawing blood.

He shakes his head and turns away, gathering our meager supplies into his pack. The silence hangs between us, thick and heavy. It has been a long time since I last felt the compulsion to break it.

“You haven’t as much as closed your eyes for the past week. And I know why.”

He glances at me for a reaction, but I don’t say anything. He takes me for a fool, still playing the role of the concerned servant when I can see right through his folly.

“I heard you talking in your sleep.”

My heart misses a beat. I wouldn’t have said anything important--I couldn’t have--

“You spoke of Strider and the Ring.” He says cautiously. There’s an edge to his voice that only manifests when he speaks of Aragorn, choosing to refer to him by his vagabond title rather than his given name.

I look down at the gravel, away from his gaze. I won’t allow for his steady repute to be tainted in the eyes of any other than myself.

“It doesn’t matter anymore.” I don’t ask him to elaborate. I don’t want to know what I said.

“It does when it still hangs around you like a shadow.” He shakes his head, disgust plain on his face. “You have a heavy enough burden to bear, Mr. Frodo.”

“I can only hope that you will refrain from venturing into topics that you had no involvement with.”

“Your own will seemed to be compromised whenever you were around him.”

“It is none of your concern.”

He gets to his feet so that he’s towering above my seated form. “You’ve started holding the Ring in your hand instead of wearing it around your neck, clenched in your fist like someone’s going to pry it away from you. You speak to it when you think I’m not listening, black speech, with no words I can decipher from the common tongue.”

“It’s become a part of you. And at the end, you won’t be able to let it go.”

The Ring flares up at Sam’s words, pressing hard into my skin as his voice echoes like a snarl. My limbs take on a will of their own, and I tackle him to the ground, drawing sting from its sheath and pressing its tip against his throat. I can feel the pulse in his jugular against my blade, strong and steady. The Ring is burning hot against my chest; searing into my skin. I could do it, plunge the blade straight through his throat, and watch as rivulets of crimson stain slate grey.

A pretty picture, indeed.

“He should have come with me.” I sneer at him. “Not you.”

He doesn’t struggle; instead he just stares at me with a strange sort of sadness and understanding. I wait for his pleads and apologies but they don’t come.

The moment passes, and the heat melts away. I pull away, and Sam gets up and dusts himself off, picking up my pack and handing it to me wordlessly.

He is comforted by the fact we have still have days ahead of us, and a journey back to look forward to, and I cannot bear to strip him of that small shred of hope. But I am struggling to shake this premonition, one that has haunted me for months; intensifying with each new step. I have trained my mind to disregard any doubts that may surface, but I cannot ignore the irreversible truth of my fate. That I will not be coming back. A disturbing notion, but I must accept it; only then will I be at peace.


	2. Fever

**Aragorn**

_They have only seconds left. He can’t breathe, let alone think. Frodo’s mouth is on his, the press of his lips is tentative, shy almost as he struggles with the buttons on his coat._

_“Let me.” he says, voice hoarse and thick with longing, prying the garment off with slightly more force than intended, causing a few gleaming gold buttons to come loose._

_Frodo tosses the coat aside, oblivious to the damages and tugs his shirt over his head in one swift motion. Skin like marble and alabaster, and Aragorn feels warmth pool at the pit of his stomach, spreading down his thighs. A rustle in the bushes shakes him out of the trance and he jerks his head towards the noise._

_“Just a rabbit.” Frodo whispers, hands reaching to undo the ties on his breeches. “We have to be quick.”_

_Every fiber of his being longed for the boy. His untouched flesh, satin lips stained crimson from friction. But he knew that these feelings could not be organic, especially now, when the pull was so strong. His eyes fall on the boy’s neck, white and vulnerable, the silver chain around it nothing more than a leash, binding him to his death. And the Ring, molten gold glistening in the moonlight, calling out to him. It takes every ounce of will in him, not to reach out and rip it off the halfling’s neck._

_A dark impulse overcomes him, and he lunges forward, the tips of his fingers ghosting across the gold before everything goes white._

_A desperate cry brings him back to his senses, and his vision clears. Frodo is standing, a few feet away, fingers enclosed on the ring, clutching it protectively against his bare chest. The longing in his gaze has vanished, replaced with a look that he knew all too well. Fear. And betrayal._

_“Forgive me.” he attempts, reaching out but Frodo jerks away, hastily retrieving his shirt and holding it against him like a shield. There are angry red scratches running down the length of Frodo’s shoulders and arms, fresh blood leaking from the wounds--_

He wrenches himself from the dream. A memory, or another trick? A new form of paranoia has crept into his days, a constant questioning of the authenticity of his decisions. He has to remain vigilant, for his thoughts are no longer his own.

He tries to sit up, but a sharp pain blossoms around his middle, and he gasps. There are cloth bandages wrapped around his forearm and knees. He presses his hand against one, feeling the damp of warm blood seeping through cloth. The room is dark and chill, windows bare of blinds, allowing a slant of moonlight to be cast across the floorboards. With a grunt of effort, he leans over, grasping wildly under the bed for his sword. Beads of cold sweat are dripping from his temple, as his fingers close around the sword Andúril, reforged from the shards of Narsil. He draws it up, leaning back against the pillows and holding its hilt against his chest. A deadly weapon, wielded by one of the greatest of his kin. It feels weightier than the average blade, but perhaps that may be due to the burden he carries he in heart. A tangible representation of the inescapable prophecy that will soon come to pass. He was once certain that he had gathered the strength to resist the temptations of the enemy through years of solitude. He had closed his heart from the curse of sentimentality, sparing only an occasional thought for Arwen. For years, he roamed the woods of the outer lands, with only the barest of necessities on his back and more often than not, without a specific destination in mind. When he was drawn back to Rivendell to witness the power of the accursed artifact for himself, the room seemed to darken, shrouded by a foreboding air of malice, only lifted by the shining eyes of the Halfling that insisted that he could shoulder the impossible task of bearing The One Ring all the way to Mordor.

He feels sick that he still longs for the boy, even when he has stripped his waking mind of those thoughts. But there is no armor one could forge that would shield him from his subconscious. Images of Arwen, unconscious and deathly pale have not touched his dreams for the better part of a month. The night never fails to reveal the worst parts of one’s self. Lust and greed. Vices he would never turn his head to, but in the shadows, one can wholly succumb to the pull of the forgotten. Buried secrets whispering from deep beneath the soil. Aragorn knows this, for he has lived in the shadows for far too long.

There is a knock on the door, a soft polite rap. When he doesn’t respond, the door pushes open, revealing Legolas, still clad in full battle gear.

“The meeting will be starting shortly.”

Aragorn hesitates; putting the sword away and attempts to stand. The room spins and he stumbles, falling hard on his knees as Legolas rushes forward, pulling him up and setting him back on the bed.

“You are burning up.” Legolas remarks, drawing a light hand across his brow. “The fever does not seem to be abating.”

“Perhaps I should remain here.”

Legolas raises an eyebrow. “This is unlike you. I find it hard to believe that several injuries and a bout of fever would be successful in eradicating your tiresome stubborn nature, while my counsel has often failed to do so.”

He smiles, and Legolas does too, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“It’s about Frodo.”

The name sends him rigid, and he attempts an even tone. “How close is he to the black gate?”

“Closer than we might suspect.”

“Legolas, díhen-nin.”

“Man agóreg?”  
“I was weak. I didn’t think.” His voice is hoarse, and it almost hurts to speak. “The enemy’s gaze has pierced me straight down to the marrow. He sees everything. Every inch of my soul.”

“The night before we reached Amon Hen, I took the ring for myself. When Frodo was asleep, I returned it as soon as dawn broke. He never knew.”

“Am men theled?” Legolas asks, and he shivers at the ice in the elf’s tone.

“Why?” Legolas repeats when he doesn’t respond.

“It was calling my name. His voice seeping into my dreams. In the dark I saw nothing but twisted visions of Minas Tirith burning. All our comrades in the fellowship slain at my feet. I did not sleep for days. I was weighed down by it, the anger and helplessness. I wanted to face him, to connect with him and tell him it was all false. A dark fantasy he conjured up in his desperation to regain power. And then I felt a strange sensation, a crack in the wall I had put up in my mind, as if someone was pulling the very thoughts from my mind. When I realized what he was doing, it was too late.”

Understanding colors the elf’s expression. “The enemy uses you as a vessel for information.”

“Gandalf mustn’t know. I made myself oblivious to Frodo and Sam’s progress since we parted, and it must that remain that way. For all our sakes.”

Legolas nods, not meeting his eyes. The confession hangs between them, thick and heavy. It is only then that Aragorn realizes that Legolas was disappointed in him. And fearful for the mental stability of their would be king.

“It is vital for you to be absent for every meeting concerning the movement of the ring. I will tell Gandalf that you are still are still recovering from your wounds.”

“Stay here. Do not even think about stepping out until I return.”

In just a matter of minutes, the warmth and camaraderie between them had completely vaporized. It was his mistake, but Legolas was speaking to him as if he was an Orc of Barad-dur. The frustration and self-loathing that he repressed simmers just below the skin, waiting to surge forth.

“Would you feel more at ease with a guard at the door? Perhaps I could arrange for one. It wouldn’t be of much use, considering my current condition.”

Legolas stops short, knuckles turning white as he tightens his grip on his bow. “Now is not the time for wit or sarcasm.”

“You’re treating me as if I am a servant of the enemy.” He shouts.

Legolas whips around, closing the space between them so that he looms over his hunched form.  
“And how different are you from that?” Legolas hisses back at him. “Your mindless actions have provided the enemy with a great advantage. He should be in fitfuls of mirth as of now, with the rightful king of Gondor right under his thumb. I do not understand why you failed to mention this sooner, when preventive action was still possible. I would like nothing less than to bar you from the meetings, when you have been an endless source of strength and insight, but you have given me no choice.”

He struggles for a moment to find a retort to that statement, but there was no point arguing against the facts.

“You are our last hope, Aragorn. Do not let our faith in you be for naught.”

*

The night passes slowly, and sleep proves to be elusive. He tosses and turns on the thin coverlets, shivering yet sweating profusely. Occasionally, he would hear voices and warm fingers would press against his wrists and neck. The words of Legolas blared through his fevered dreams, intermingled with fragmented memories of the past. Wandering aimlessly along the shores of Rhún with nothing but the chirping of the crickets for company.

When the tremors have passed, he gets out of bed, crossing the candle lit entryway to the bathroom. He sheds his clothes quickly, filling an empty bucket with cold water from the well and splashing it all over his face and chest. The chilly autumn wind and icy water would hopefully be enough to break the fever. He would boil a few leaves of Athelas later on for strength. He could not linger any longer, for his presence would do nothing but harm. Once again, he had to resign himself to dreaded solitude. He had grown accustomed to the solace and safety in his newfound kinship with Legolas and Gimli. He would hear a rustle in the dark and not turn around, trusting that either one of them would act first. His instincts had dulled, and he was no longer as sharp as he used to be.

Donning his rugged gear and armor, he takes a last look at the marbled halls of the house of healing. Perhaps he could be of use somewhere else. A distraction to draw the enemy away. Or a sacrifice. The white tree would never blossom again. If he could not bring hope to Gondor, he would willingly give his life for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish Translations
> 
> Díhen nin – I’m sorry  
> Man agóreg – what for?  
> Am men theled? Why did you do that?


	3. False Comfort

**Frodo**

 

_There’s something moving in the water. Shifting under the ripples. It’s so murky that I can barely make out my own reflection. But the pull is so strong; I can’t look away or even turn my head. I am rooted in place, staring and searching through the mangled corpses, piled on top of each other. Then I see him. Pale and lifeless, floating just below the surface. His lips are blue and his eyes shut, the leaf from Lorien still clasped at his neck. How is this possible? He wouldn’t have taken the same passage as us. Unless he was killed along the way. But he was already dead before we left Amon Hen. I saw it with my own eyes and it tore me apart._

_There is an invisible force pulling me down towards the water, almost like cold fingers closing around my throat. They are crushing my windpipe and I can’t breathe. My vision is fading and the damp grass beneath me starts to give way. Then I am falling. When I open my eyes, he is right in front of me. His faces inches away from mine. I grab on to his arms to try and pull him out but he doesn’t budge. I shout his name, hoping that my voice would awaken him. Bubbles form in the void of sound. It is only then I realize that the oxygen is running out._

_I try again, wrapping my arms around his middle and pulling with all my might. My ear is pressed against his chest and I can hear the faint thump of a heartbeat. Then a fist closes around the back of my shirt, pulling me back towards the light. I am screaming and thrashing, fighting to get back down--_

I open my eyes and the memory crumbles. Sam is huddled a few feet away from me, a look of desperate fear in his eyes. What happened? I look down at my hands and the dark crimson that cakes them turns my stomach over. Sméagol lies at my feet along with Sting, a pool of blood forming underneath him. I don’t need to check to know that he is dead. By my hand.

I am shaking. Trembling so hard that I fall to my knees. The memory comes back in pieces. Gollum wrestling the Ring away from him. Sam trying to pull him off. My fingers tearing into his throat with a strength I didn’t know I had. Gollum disappearing and Sméagol taking his place once again, pleading with me. The bruises on my fingers from tightening my grip when I tried to loosen it, His voice quietly coaxing me on.

Sam approaches me tentatively with a damp rag, cleaning the blood off my hands. Why didn’t he stop me? He wanted Sméagol dead from the start, and the opportune moment had finally presented itself. He didn’t even have to get his hands dirty. But I will be forced to live with the knowledge that I have taken an innocent life. I can only hope that the torment of that will not be for long.

“He has led us this far.” Sam says, in an attempt to be reassuring. “We are only a day’s walk away from Barad-Dur.”

“Why didn’t you stop me?” The words come out hoarse. My throat and chest hurt, and my cheeks are wet with tears.

“He was plotting to take the Ring all along. Who’s to say he wouldn’t do it again? We’ve got to count our blessings on this desolate rock.”

“Everything went dark. It-it was like a dream.”

Sam looks up at me, eyes shining. “You wouldn’t have been capable of it yourself, Mr. Frodo.”

His words exude a false comfort, which only chills me further. We both remember the day I held Sting to his throat, the need to kill stronger than anything I’ve felt before. It is hard to differentiate my will from His, when his hold on me grows stronger by the day. Sam’s unwavering belief in my goodness unravels something within me, rekindling an emotion I thought I’d lost.

“You have to leave me, Sam.”

“You’re not thinking right, Mr. Frodo.” Sam tries to take my hand in his, but I recoil instinctively.

“I can’t hold him back anymore.” I whisper. “He’ll force his way out. I couldn’t have done that without his strength in my veins.”

Understanding colors his expression and he stands, clenching his fists. He and I have become one, and to truly be rid of him, my body cannot survive. For I have become nothing more than a host for a starving parasite, and an echo of him will always remain in me, dormant but still drawing breath.

Sam is staring at the Ring around my neck, and I can see the shift in his expression. He knows that he won’t be able to withstand the temptation, especially being so close to the heart of its power.

“I made a promise to Gandalf.”

“And I’m releasing you from it. I will not rob you of the life you long for, as if it is but a distant dream. It isn’t lost, not yet, if you turn away now.”

Speaking of the Shire doesn’t kindle the same warmth in me as it used to. I try to recall the sprawling fields and the sun on my face. The flowers and shrubbery leading up to Bag End. The sound of rifling parchment as Bilbo mumbles to himself in his study, lost in another time. But no matter how tightly I hold on to the images, they slip out of my grasp. There is always the darkness looming at the edges of my vision, gnawing away at my pithy attempts at recollection.

Sam shakes his head, slowly, as if my words had weakened his conviction. But he doesn’t move.

“It’s a sacrifice I’m going to have to make.”

The Ring stirs, heating up beneath the collar of my shirt, as if Sam’s response has angered it. It wants to force me into isolation, where no one can reach me. Only then will it be able to fully consume me.

The Ring is acting up again, His words seeping into my dreams. I need to be alone. That night, I wait for Sam’s breathing to even out as he dozes off, before slinging my pack over my shoulder and stealing away into the darkness.


	4. Blind Faith

**Aragorn**

 

It has been three days since his flight from Minas Tirith, with no word to or from his comrades. He travels light—weapons, food and the bare necessities. The road has been hard and desolate, and he is barely able to slay a deer without stumbling from the pain of his wounds. With every passing hour, he checks on the progress of the enemy, charting the direction of movement pressed up against a rock. Footsteps of at least a thousand moving towards Eriador. Just a day’s walk ahead. He had spent days driving most of the forces away from the remaining villages, and slain as many orcs as his beaten body would allow him. But it wouldn’t be enough. The prophecy did not promise him evasion from death, and he would need stealth and focus to spare himself from it.

Brego’s gallop slows to a steady trot, whinnying with exhaustion. He leaps off the horse and unhooks the baggage, setting up camp near the edge of the woods. Nightfall is only hours away, the sky shedding blue for a deep smoky grey. Daylight slips away so quickly in these parts. He gathers firewood and slays a rabbit for dinner as the last few dregs blink out, warming his hands against the flames. The dark felt almost comforting, a long awaited reunion. Three days was long enough to confirm that he did not plan to return. Would Legolas and Gimli see his leave as a blessing? Would their blind faith make them come running, a desperate search for their fallen king? The throne was never his. His place was in the shadows, an observer that would never intrude. The enemy was too close to him, a poison that lurked just beneath the skin.

He knew Gandalf planned to march to the black gate with the few men they had left. Turn the eye towards them so Frodo could slip past them. They would be surrounded by thousands of orcs. Most of the men had never seen war, never knew the thrill and horror of certain death. Who would rally the men to battle? Fill their hearts with a strange new courage that surged from the crevices of their soul? Force them to fight without end, with no promise that they might see another dawn?

His lids are heavy with sleep, and he reaches into his pack for more pipe weed. A sting clips his fingers and he yanks his hand out, scalded. Within the confines of leather the palantir gleams, a wisp forming in the middle of polished glass. He had slipped it out from Gandalf’s quarters while he was busy with negotiations, and stared into its murky depths night after night, coaxing it to life. He tries again, brushing his fingers across the cool glass and raising it to eye level, supporting it in his palm. The wisp swirls and expands, filling the entire expanse of the orb. A voice growls within the recesses of his skull, guttural and filled with anguish. The orb flashes and glows, smoke shifting within it to form an image. Frodo stumbling across the threshold of Minas Morgul towards the tower of Cirith Ungol. There is something in the Halfling’s gaze that frightens him. Hollow, as if scraped clean from the inside, trudging forward without seeing. Starved for a form of sustenance that goes beyond food or drink. He knows that the spawn of Ungoliant lies within the caves. Watching and waiting for unknowing prey to stumble into her web. The image disappears, replaced by the eye. The glass of the Palantir grows from warm to scalding, searing his fingertips but he is unable to drop it. There is nothing but the voices. _Elessar._ He would yield, if it would make them stop.

Muffled voices echo around him and he drops the ball of glass, stowing it in his bag just as three orcs approach from the woods.

“What have we here?” One hisses, jerking his chin up with the tip of a blade.

“Leave the scum.” Another says. “We must return to Barad-dur before sunrise.”

“This one looks familiar.”

The Orc reaches forward to tilt his head around, so that the moonlight illuminates the planes of his face. Recognition colors the foul creature’s expression.

“It’s an honor, my Lord.” He snarls, voice dripping with glee. “What brings you out here in this time of war? Surely your people must be unwilling to spare you.”

The other Orcs peer at him, cackling as they caught on, grinning in disbelief. He inches his fingers to Anduríl hidden behind his back, only managing to grasp its hilt before they snatch it away.

“Bind his hands.” The two others do as their told, yanking him to his feet and hoisting him on Brego, tying one end of rope around the steed’s neck.

*

The whip him repeatedly, before pressing hot coals against his bare chest. He winces a few times, but forces himself not to scream. They asked about Frodo, about his progress and his current location. Pieces of information that he wished he knew. They travelled a few miles North before stopping for a break. The interrogation had been civil at first, but they grew frustrated quickly when his silence persisted. Finally, they had resorted to basic methods of torture, nothing he had never experienced before. They grow weary after an hour, kicking him aside and busying themselves with stripping a deer for their evening meal. His wounds were shallow, but he felt delirious from the stinging cold. From the plains, he could barely make out the grim silhouette of Ered Lithui, the Ash Mountains lining the fringes of Mordor like a row of gravestones. Frodo should be close now, past Cirith Ungol and closing on the black gate.

An epiphany strikes him like a splash of cold water. He would wait until Gondor’s forces had reached the black gate, before meeting them in battle. It would be too late for the enemy to extract any information from his mind when they were minutes away from striking. No army is complete without a king. After the meal, the Orcs had drifted into a heavy stupor, with the occasional snoring and mumbling in their sleep. Soundlessly, he heaves himself across the glass to a sharp jut of rock, sawing at his binds on the jagged edge. He beheads them one by one, dragging their bodies to the bottom of a large oak tree while eating the remainder of the charred deer. It occurs to him that Sauron might have sent the Orcs out to hunt for him, pulling his location from their connection through the Palantir. Through the wall of glass, the enemy saw right through him, down to the crevices of his soul. He tips the ball of glass into the lake, a mirror of the sky, dark enough that he couldn’t watch as it tumbled into the depths.


End file.
